Mel & Sue

Mel: I'm sitting here writing with a ruddy great damp patch. No, it's not my advancing old age, but a brown, mouldy ceiling-cyst, directly above my head. It's rather like Tess of the D'Urbervilles, when Alec's murdered body drips a patch of blood through to the dining-room ceiling below, except a lot less dramatic and not involving any blood or fictional characters.

Oh dear, my brain is addled. Why? Because, to rectify this damp, I'll have to get the builders in, which I always find skull-fryingly, eyeball-rotatingly stressful. Whenever I deal with builders, or anybody remotely involved in maintaining my worldly goods, my wits become as blunt as Sir Anthony himself. I am such a sucker - I mean, do I have "Shaft Me" tattooed on to my forehead, or something? No, I don't, which is a relief for many reasons, but I swear I'm doing something wrong. Here's an example - a plumber came round simply to mend a loose tap. I saw him off two weeks later with a new pistachio-coloured bathroom suite, power-shower unit, sewage system and boiler. He damned nearly flogged me a pond with peeing Pan water-feature, too.

I've got to be tougher and less chummy. My mum is very formal with builders - Mr Barlby built our extension, and we were all mortified that she rather poshly called him "Mr Barlby" for two months. He took me aside and said, "Listen, get your mum to call me Mick." Mum sent the message back, via me, "Mr Barlby you came, and Mr Barlby you shall remain."

I must follow her Margot (from TV's The Good Life) tactics: when the builders come, there'll be no coffee, no Jammy Dodgers, no eye contact. So what's the betting I end up with a new loft conversion where the damp patch used to be?

Sue: When your roof leaks, when the pilot light goes out, when damp blisters through your hallway, then you'll see them coming. Riding through the urban plains in Bedford vans, swaggering in the paint-stained "Say No To Europe" T-shirts, their buttocks semi-sheathed in stone-washed denim revealing an arse crack wide enough to store your weekly shopping in, they lollop down the street, hands hovering over their tool-belts, ready for a quick draw... on a Rothmans. Yes, siree, the cowboys are in town.

Builders descend on my house with all the zeal of Christopher Biggins at the opening of a paper bag. To me, builders are the great enigmas of western civilisation. Instead of simply answering your questions, they speak in riddles and interminable anecdotes. For example, ask how much your bill is, and they'll reminisce about the time they sledge-hammered through someone's bathroom suite because they refused to cough up. When choosing a builder, look for one that bears the seal of the Guild of Master Craftsmen. This hallmark guarantees that the builder is trained in the art of house repair - namely, he can stomach tea with 14 sugars, he can speak 19 to the dozen without losing purchase on his roll-up and he will call you a bleeding heart, permissive, liberal, pinko-commie bastard when you suggest it's not right that he speaks to you in a Pakistani accent.

When your builder leaves, expect plumbing that looks more like an HR Giger drawing than a heating system and RSI in your hand from continually switching on the kettle. To avoid the latter, don't fall for the classic builders' line, as I did: "Sue, what's the chief export of Brazil?"